


earned it

by strongandlovestofic



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Banter, M/M, Shower Sex, Smut, This is just smut, and, oh and!, post-pokerap smut and banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 19:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19302538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strongandlovestofic/pseuds/strongandlovestofic
Summary: “If we fuck in the shower we'll die,” you tell him, but you're already pushing him away gently, enough to let you stand up, slough off your jacket and start on your shirt buttons. “People die fucking in the shower. We'll be, uh, a statistic. The Post's headline will just read,Millennials Can't Even Not Fuck Up Fucking.”





	earned it

**Author's Note:**

> hello welcome to smut thank you for reading :)

Brian’s suit jacket is off as soon as the two of you are in your room, chucked haphazardly over the back of the desk chair, and then his hands are on your chest, sliding under your jacket and pushing it back over your shoulders. The smile that’s been on his face since he finished, the smile that’s some combination of _we did it_ and _people liked it_ and _I was born for the fucking stage_ , presses against your mouth and the kiss is all teeth, eager and messy and breathless. Your hands find his hips and you pull him forward against you, your back hits the door, and the cheap ass fire escape plan placard rattles behind your head.

“Fucking theatre kid,” you tell him, and he scrapes his teeth over your jaw before he pulls back, grinning.

“I need to shower, I’m sweaty and gross,” he says, like you mind, and you grab at his waistband, at his tucked-in shirt while he laughs. Your knuckles brush against his belly and he shudders away, a reaction, ticklish, and you push him back enough to give you room to sink onto your knees. “I’m _sweaty_ and _gross_ ,” he protests, but his hand drops to your head, his fingers tangling in your hair and tugging gently, and you press a kiss to the skin next to his navel. You breathe him in.

“That went really well.”

He laughs, his breath catching when you scrape your teeth over his bony hip. “D'you think?” And you know he's full of well-deserved happy confidence even if he's also fishing — you'd caught him by the waist after, behind the curtains, told him it'd gone well and he'd crowed, _Understatement of the fucking century, Pat Gill,_ his face flushed, his hand on your arm.

“Your shirt rode up,” you respond, and he laughs. “Just the tiniest patch of skin.”

He tugs at your hair, and when you glance up at him he's smiling down at you, his eyes fond. “You ol’ horndog. And you've managed to wait until now.”

Because afterwards there were people — there were _fans_ , there to see Brian, and sometimes you and Simone but mostly Brian, because he's a Goddamn sensation. Because he's smart, because he's funny, and yeah, because he looks just nonsensically hot in a suit. (You've all seen the comments.)

You unbuckle his belt and slide it out of the loops, chucking it on the floor behind him somewhere. “And the entire time you knew what I was gonna do to you when we got back here.” You unbutton his pants, unzip them.

He laughs, his tone bubbly. “Ooh lawdy, I think I'm being seduced.” You hook your fingers in the waistband of his pants, his briefs, and peel them down slowly, kissing the trail of hair below his navel, the base of his dick, still trapped under his clothes.

You pull back, your hands lingering at his hips, and when you look up at him again you're… you're struck. It's like a physical blow, the weight of affection, of love, that you have for this talented fucker. For this Goddamn remarkable man, who out of every good person in the world somehow decided on you. It heats every inch of you, punches out of your chest and spirals through your nerve endings. “I have it on good authority you're pretty easy.”

“How dare you,” he says, his eyes crinkling as he laughs, and he bends his knee, knocking it into your shoulder. “And, yeah, obviously. Get naked, I want you naked, I would like to be naked _with_ you, preferably in the shower.”

“If we fuck in the shower we'll die,” you tell him, but you're already pushing him away gently, enough to let you stand up, slough off your jacket and start on your shirt buttons. “People die fucking in the shower. We'll be, uh, a statistic. The Post's headline will just read, _Millennials Can't Even Not Fuck Up Fucking_.”

Brian hums and pulls off his shoes, then shucks off his pants and briefs. His shirt tails just cover his dick, and you lick your bottom lip, draw it between your teeth. “The double negative is good, that's good reporting.” He undoes the top of his shirt and glances at you — then stops, and his eyebrows raise. “This doing it for you?” He puts his hands on his hips and sways, and you burst out laughing when his dick swings back and forth. “You like the Risky Business look? Minus the tighty whities. Do I need to buy tighty whities?”

“Please don't.” You let your shirt fall to the floor and drop back down to a knee to get your boots off. “Also this is giving me meatspin flashbacks.”

“You love my swingy dick,” Brian protests and... yeah, okay. You get your second boot untied and you stand back up, and you reach for him, get your arm around his waist, under his shirt.

“Still not naked!” he objects when you pull him in, kiss his smiling mouth. “Shower, please, I smell like an overripe roast.” You press a kiss to his jaw, to his cheek, to his ear. “Like a salami left in the sun.” He smells sweaty but not dirty. Like himself, only more. “I smell like the mat at a wrestling match.”

You slide one of your hands back to squeeze his ass. “I am clueless why you think that wouldn't do it for me.”

“God, it _would_.” He smacks your arm and you let him go, and he steps back immediately, lifting a leg so he can pull a sock off. “I'm going to shower, Patrick, and the power is in your hands to join me.”

“ _New York Man Breaks Neck Getting It In._ ”

“Give Florida Man a run for his money!” He tosses his other sock further into the room, and finishes unbuttoning his shirt.

“ _Couple’s Sexy Slip’n’Slide Takes a Turn for the Worst._ ”

Brian chucks his shirt at you. “See, I'd read the hell outta that. That would sell papers. We need to do our part to save local journalism.”

You chuck the shirt back at him and he dodges into the bathroom. The light and fan flip on, and you heave a sigh as you take off the rest of your clothes.

He's got towels laid out across the counter next to his glasses and the water running when you walk in. He's mumbling under his breath, holding his hand under the faucet, and he hums, pleased, before turning the shower on. “Do you think there's a subgenre of shower porn? They could call it _Come Get Your Dick Wet._ ”

You put your glasses next to his and make a pained face at him in the mirror. “ _Brian_.”

He smiles. “It's good, right? It's good, don't give me that look, now get in, I think I got the temp right.”

He did, so you do. He climbs in behind you and pulls the curtain shut, and then he's crowding you back into the spray, his fingers working their way into your hair while he kisses you. You grab at his hip, his ass, and he rocks your hips together, shit. You're keyed up — you've been keyed up since the end of the triplet rap, when he knew he'd killed it, when he'd turned from the crowd to hide the shit-eating grin on his face... And if you're honest with yourself, since that moment he almost swallowed the mic and his voice had bent charmingly fond during the musical theatre bit, when he'd said your name like that in front of hundreds of people and God.

He tips your head back a little, water spilling down your face, and he licks a line up your neck, hovers his mouth under your jaw. “I, um, I put lube next to the soap.”

Of course he did. Of course he considered where you were mostly likely to end up tonight, riding high on adrenaline and the purest of joy. You can't help but laugh, slide your other hand back to his ass and squeeze. Slip your fingers between his asscheeks until they're circling over his hole. “I cannot overstate how much I think one of us will pull something if I fuck you in the shower. There are no little non-slip butterflies on the tub.”

“Bodily harm is an improvement over death!” He wiggles against you, his dick bumping into yours, and you both breathe in sharply before he does it again. Shit. “At least — God, I want your fingers in me.”

He says shit like that, completely shameless about it. And you're just… useless in the face of it, of Brian telling you he wants you, whatever it is. You reach back blindly, your hand stumbling over the tiny bottle of shampoo you tried to use this morning before Brian squawked at you about sulfates, until you find the soap and then the familiar tube.

“Wait, hmm,” he says, and he kisses your chin and awkwardly moves around you until he's in the spray. And then he turns, laying a palm flat against the tile while his hair deflates under the stream of water. “I actually do, uh, need to shower. Overripe ham, salami, sexy wrestling, etc.”

You snort and run your fingers through his hair, then drag your hand down through one of the rivulets of water streaming down his back, following a line of muscle. “Right, what we’ve got here is a filthy boy.”

“Ooh, double entendres really do it for me.” He spreads his feet and angles his ass up, and you laugh. God, it's a view, his skin rosy heat-pink, the subtle lines of the muscles of his back, the divots above either side of his ass that your thumbs fit perfectly into. The water making him shine. “D’you know what else does it for me?”

“I have no idea,” you tell him, pitching your voice higher, innocent, as you drag one of your hands down over the curve of an asscheek, until you can grasp the meat of it in your palm. “Emotional highs? Theatre? Shitty hotel shampoo?”

He leans up out of the spray and looks at you over his shoulder, tossing his hair as much as it allows him to, soaking wet and plastered to his neck. “This _mane_ -tenance isn’t easy, Patrick.”

You squeeze his ass and he laughs, pressing back against you, moving his hips when he’s pressed to your dick. “No, riding your fingers,” he says, eager, and you push his hair to the side, kiss the back of his neck, sloppy, bite him hard enough he yelps and then laughs. ”C’mon, Pat Gill, reward me.”

“What happened to actually needing to shower?” But you’re already mid-reach around, your hand finding his dick to stroke it, grip firm, and he hums happily. You slide your other hand down between his asscheeks, circling your finger around his hole but not going further.

“I can multitask, _bay-by_ ,” he singsongs, and you squeeze his dick and relish the way he gasps, with a little moan at the end, before pulling away so you can get lube on your fingers.

He reaches back with one hand and pulls one cheek to the side, his usual frustrating combination of helpful and teasing, and you breathe out a quiet _Goddamn_ and slide two of your fingers into him.

“ _Fuck_.” His hand drops from his ass and his back goes taut, and he pushes back against you, taking your fingers in deeper. “Oh fuck, Patrick,” he says, and the warm bend of your name heats you more than the spray of water ever would.

You search for his prostate and you know how he reacts to that —  know how he reacts, you know —  so when you feel it firm against your fingertips you slide your other hand up his back, hold him down, keep him bent forward as he tries to straighten, as he shudders, his body shaking under you, around you. The water’s hitting the back of his head, and it cascades through your spread fingers between his shoulder blades, slides between his asscheeks and pools in your cupped palm, your fingers knuckle deep inside him.

"You good?" you ask him, rubbing gently. He laughs, the sound almost lost in the spray, and he rocks his hips back, your fingers slipping deeper inside him. You watch him open wider around you, and you rock your hips forward, just enough to rub your dick against his ass. Shit, it’s still a bad idea, you _know_ people break their fucking necks, but you’re dumb and horny and so Goddamn in… proud of him. “You still think it’s a good idea to fuck?”

He laughs, the sound transitioning into a moan when he tightens around you. “Let’s make the _frontpagenews_ ,” he says, the words blurring together when you pull your fingers out of him, when you drag a fingertip over the edge of his hole.

You take your other hand off his back and find the lube again, uncap it and just — fuck, squeeze it out onto the base of your dick. He reaches back and grabs you, smooths the lube down the length of your dick and you snag his wrist and laugh. “Fucking — hold your horses, hombre.”

He wiggles his ass. "Giddyup, pardner."

So you're laughing when your dick catches on the rim of his hole, laughing when you press into him. Grunting when he straightens, pushing a palm against the tile and rocking back, taking you faster than you'd expected. He twists his head and kisses you, his mouth dragging against yours, and you wrap your hand around his dick because this isn't going to fucking last long, you're still too keyed up from the performance and you want to make him feel good. He should feel good. He's — if you could spend the rest of your shitty life making him feel good, you'd do it.

"You were fucking incredible," you slur into his mouth, and you kiss his jaw when he gasps, when he bucks into your fist and then back on your dick. "You _are_ , you — absolute motherfucker, I told you they'd love it, they had to turn people away —"

"You are, you are _not_ 'I told you so'-ing me right, right now, oh my God," he laughs, and you circle your thumb over the head of his dick to hear him whine. You lick down his throat, bite his trap, sink your teeth into him. "I would've, I couldn't've." He tilts his head, like he's offering himself up, and you suck at the skin behind his ear just to hear his breath stutter. His dick's heavy, thick in your hand, and he's so fucking hot around you, and you bite his earlobe because you know it makes his knees go weak. "Thanks, thank you, for, for," he fumbles, and he shudders as he comes, leaning back against you hard enough, suddenly enough that you have to grab the Goddamn soap ledge so you don't go sprawling and _die_.

He doesn't seem to notice, and the adrenaline pulsing through your veins is muddled with everything else, and the way you hissed _oh fuck_ was probably interpreted as, uh, as sex-related, and the leverage you’re getting now that you’re gripping something solid is — you press your mouth to his shoulder and splay your hand across his stomach and you fuck into him, you curve your fingers into his skin and you come with a muffled shout.

(You keep your grip on the fucking shower shelf.)

When you lift your head there’s a perfect circle of teeth indentations in the meat of his shoulder. You kiss his red skin, drag your tongue over the water speckled up his neck, and he laughs and pushes back against you, your dick sliding fucking sloppily inside of him still. Goddamn. He reaches for your hair, tugs your head forward enough that he doesn’t have to turn much, can kiss you. Can lift his eyebrows and smile. “See? We lived, bitch.”

You close your eyes and laugh, bumping your foreheads together. “ _Barely_ , you fucker.”

He tells you, “Let me wash your hair," and your dick slips out of him when he turns around, and then he’s working his fancy ass shampoo into your scalp as you rub your hand in slow circles on his lower back.

"Gimme the soap," you tell him, and you lather up his back, his shoulders, his chest as he watches you with heavy-lidded eyes.

The bathroom's not big enough for you both to dry off at the same time, but you pretend it is anyway, elbows and knees knocking, and a near miss involving your hand and his nose.

"You're OP," you tell him, after you've made sure you didn't actually backhand him across his fucking face. "I'm trying to nerf you."

"Aw," he replies, voice thick and syrupy, "Broken noses add character." He draws the side of a finger down your nose, gentle, and you stop yourself from doing something stupid like taking his hand, kissing his knuckles. "I like your schnoz, Patrick."

Then he grabs your nose and makes a soft _honk_ noise, and you grab the hand towel you’d used this morning when you were shaving — start whipping it around your hand. You manage to smack his hip with a satisfying _crack_ with the end of the towel before he flees out of the bathroom, laughing and calling you an asshole.

When you join him he’s buck naked and sprawled out on your bed, facedown with his arms folded up underneath his chest, his hair blooming out around his head. His suitcase is open on his bed, his clothes spread across the comforter like he’d gone searching before deciding on going without.

You collapse next to him, burying your face in your pillow and stretching your legs out. “I probably should’ve pulled back the covers before doing this.” You don’t think you’re going to move for at least the next seven hours, and when he shifts on the bed, curves towards you, hooks his fingers around your wrist, you know you’re not gonna move.

“What time do you have to be up for the thing?” he asks, and you try to think beyond today: the performance, the meet-and-greet, Brian’s incandescence. Brian here, right now, quiet and touching you.

You have League of Heels tomorrow morning and Simone and Brian are catching the early train back up. You remember when Simone booked their tickets — the way Brian had stared at her for a few seconds before asking her exactly _when_ they had to be awake. “Uh, after you, I think. You leave at 9?”

He groans. “The train leaves at 9. So I leave at… 8? Maybe 7:30. Earlier if we’re getting food before.” His eyes flutter open, the bedside lamp behind you catching just a sliver of iris. “I don’t wanna think about waking up.”

You huff a laugh and shift enough to reach out, slide your hand into his hair, cup the back of his neck. Rub your thumb over the short hairs curling against his skin. “You’re getting old,” you tell him fondly, and he snickers, turning his face against his pillow. “It’s not funny: you’re gonna wake up tomorrow and your back’s gonna ache. Your knees are gonna pop whenever you move. You’re gonna sit on the floor for half an hour and fall over when you stand up.”

“Oh no.” His voice is muffled but you can still hear the melodramatic affect he’s putting on anyway. “Oh no, Pat Gill, I’ve frittered away my youth on video games and pottery.”

You tug at one of his curls and lean in, kiss the stretch of neck behind his ear. “You get used to it.”

“Your young men’ll be frittering,” he hums, and he rolls onto his side, pressing into you, slotting under your arm, up against your chest. “Frittering away their chore time too.”

You loop your arm around him, spread your hand across his stomach, press your cheek against the back of his head. “God forbid, not the young men.” His shoulders are warm, but his ass is somehow cold against your thighs. You should really make blankets happen. “Theatre kid.”

He yawns through saying, “You recognized it, _dweeb_ ,” and then he sings _we’ve got trouble_ under his breath, covers your arm with his, and laces your fingers together. “Also, covers. We don’t got covers.”

You make no move to grab them, but you do slide one of your knees forward, just between his thighs, which are warmer than his ass. “Right here in Boston city.”

“Right here,” he agrees, and he rocks his ass back against you like he’s punctuating the statement. And then he hums, consideringly. “Right here, huh?”

Little shit.

It works though, his Goddamn proximity — you feel a deep warmth start spiraling through you from behind your stomach, and your mind may be dismissing the idea of coming twice in an hour but your dumbass body thinks it’s on the table.

You kiss the back of his head, twist until you can reach his neck, nip lightly at the cord of muscle next to his spine. “Sleep, asshole.”

“Sure,” he says, and he guides your hand down his stomach, over wisps of hair, until you’re both cupping his soft dick. “Sleep sounds good.” He rolls his hips, forward into your hands and then back against your dick, and he turns his head so that he can eye you. “You fucking me again sounds better. _Or_ , shit, we just showered, I could eat you out.”

“Oh my God I’m so tired.” Which is what you say, but your dick seems to think that’s a _phenomenal_ idea, the way it’s jutting up against Brian’s ass.

He hums something that sounds suspiciously like _shipoopi, the girl who’s hard to get_ , and you nudge your knee up against his balls and press your hand down against his dick, which cuts _that_ bullshit off, God. He’s laughing breathlessly when he says, “I can’t believe you’re turning me down. I can’t believe age has done this to you.”

“Your knees stop working and your ass remains uneaten.”

“Woefully uneaten,” he mourns, and he lets go of your hand and reaches towards you, grabs the side of your hip, his fingers against your ass, and gives it a good squeeze. “One more for the road, baby.”

“Pretty sure that implies sex tomorrow morning. Before you hit the road,” you tell him, but you’re already moving your hand from his dick to his ass, pushing his arm out of the way. “Wanna wake up at 5? Think you’ll be awake enough to — _fuck_.”

He’s still loose. Fuck, your fingers slip into him so easily, he’s still slick, and you drop your head to his shoulder and moan while he laughs. You can feel the rumble of it around your fingers.

“C’mon Pat.” He grunts as he pushes back against you until your palm’s flat against his ass, your fingers deep inside him — and you have to center yourself, concentrate on him and the soft noises he’s making and the way he’s tightening around you and not the fucking throb of your dumbass dick.

You draw your fingers out enough you can rub against his prostate and he — God, he melts. He breathes out in a long sigh and he melts, the muscles of his back relaxing, his shoulders falling, like you’ve found his Goddamn off switch. "Yeah," he breathes, all loose and easy, and fuck, you replace your fingers with your dick, line yourself up and you just slide in, easy as anything. You rock into him, a slow roll of your hips, and you press your forehead against the side of his neck.

“Sweetheart,” you murmur, your mouth open on his skin, and his quiet _fuck_ ends in a whine. His arm’s moving gently — he’s rhythmically elbowing you in the side as he jerks himself off — and you’re laughing as you snake your arm under his, settling your hand on his stomach again. You fuck into him and listen to him gasp, and it’s a slow build, age _has_ done this to you, but you’re gonna come within minutes anyway because he’s warm and solid and tight and more than all of that he’s _Brian_ , and you’re weak for him.

How could you _not_ be.

Your hips stutter and you thrust into him again, go tense as you come, your fingertips digging into his skin, and he whispers something that’s probably filthy and rocks into his hand, jerking himself off like he was holding back before and he’s making up for it.

You hold him as he comes shaking. Kiss his neck. Listen to his breathing even out. Fuck, you feel like you’re buried under forty pounds of weight, your limbs bearing most of the burden. A blend of exhaustion and… _happiness_ , you guess.

He groans and shifts on the bed, pushing back against you. Goddamn cuddler. “You’re on towel duty, right?”

“I’m dead,” you reply. “Once you pass thirty anybody with a dick can’t come twice in a single night without dying.”

“Tragedy.” He elbows you and you’re too tired to catch his arm before he does it a second time. “Counterpoint: we’re lying on top of the covers still.”

Which is how you end up dragging your feet on the way to the bathroom to grab a warm, wet washcloth. Brian’s sitting on the edge of the mattress when you return, blankets pulled back, and you contemplate chucking the washcloth at his head but don’t — hand it to him instead before clambering over to your side of the bed. You collapse face first into your pillow and he soon joins you, tugging the blankets up to the top of your shoulders.

“Thanks for uh, for,” he says, and you cycle through all the things he could possibly think he needed to be grateful for. All of them leave you feeling — weird. He doesn’t owe you anything. Fuck, you’re so _lucky_ , and you’ll spend the rest of your stupid life telling him that if you get the opportunity.

You cut him off with a muffled, “You’re welcome,” and he huffs out a laugh like he knows what you’re doing — but doesn’t press it. He winds one of his legs through yours and drags the backs of his knuckles against your arm instead.

“We’ve got covers,” he sings quietly. “...that stands for pool.”

“Pick a little, _talk a little_ ,” you mutter and he laughs. “God, sleep.” You turn your face towards him, and when he’s still, when his eyelashes flutter, you watch him, the soft curve of his cheek, the curl of hair falling in front of his ear. “Love you, you talented asshole.”

 

==

 

He wakes you up before he leaves, a delicate brush of his fingers through your hair, the soft whisper of a kiss against your forehead.

You grasp for him as he pulls away, manage to grab ahold of — something, his hip, and you blink up at him in the early morning light. He’s smiling down at you, his expression soft. Fond. You think of yesterday: his nerves, the performance, how incandescent he was. Is.

“You’re fucking incredible,” you tell him, and he laughs, takes your hand off his hip and squeezes it.

“Love you too,” he says, letting go, and you fall back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed it, i'd love to hear from you in a comment. ♥


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